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JOURNEYS; In the Florida Keys, 'Bonefish Oblivion'

By MICHAEL ONEAL

Published: May 2, 2003

VIEWED from the bow of a 16-foot skiff, the kaleidoscope of light in the Florida Keys has the power to mesmerize. Slate gray in the morning, the sea turns luminous in the rising sun. Flecks of brightness grow into great fields of color that ripple and vibrate like melted stained glass. Greens upon greens mix with blues and purples in a liquid blurring of ocean and sky. Emerald shallows flow into deep azure pools that seem lighted from within.

If your fly rod is in your hand and you have a passion for bonefish, your mind can't help but surrender to the hunt. The shallow flat in front of you is a transparent tapestry of those radiant greens and blues. All you can hear is your own desire. Quite suddenly, a voice from behind says ''10 o'clock, 40 feet!'' and a silvery shadow slips into view. Your heart takes hold of your hand and you cast for all you are worth.

''Bonefish oblivion'' is what the author Zane Grey called this hypnotic combination of ''suspense, dream and sleep.'' And as any number of addicts will tell you, it is easy to lose yourself to the narcotic effects of flats fishing.

A weakness for game fish is one big reason Northern transplants proliferate in the stilted houses of the Florida Keys. They talk endlessly about hunting down a bonefish and feeling it scream away toward the horizon, sending a charge up the line, down the arm and into the soul.

Feeling oblivion's pull, I headed for the windswept flats near Islamorada recently for a spring dose of bonefishing at its birthplace. Only a 90-minute drive from the Miami International Airport, the town comprises two keys (Upper and Lower Matecumbe) near the center of the chain of islands that stretch 128 miles from the tip of the mainland to Key West. Islamorada has been a bonefishing destination since early in the last century when an Albula vulpes was first caught on a fly there.

There are certainly plenty of other places to hunt the gray ghost of the flats (as the species is known). Most of them are considerably more beautiful and abundant with prey. Andros Island in the Bahamas and the waters of southern Cuba are the closest high-caliber alternative to the Keys. Huge schools of bonefish also swim across the spectacular flats of the Seychelles in the Indian Ocean and those ringing Christmas Island in the South Pacific. A bonefish habit (and a small fortune) can lead you to some of the most exotic places in the world.

Proximity, of course, is the chief advantage of the Keys. But history and tradition are also on its side. Fishermen have been streaming to the Keys since 1912 when Henry Flagler -- the man J. D. Rockefeller credited with the original idea for Standard Oil -- finally completed his quixotic project to connect Miami and Key West by rail over a series of improbable bridges. The trains ferried armies of industrialists and adventurers like Mr. Grey to the Keys, where they could be seen venturing out on the water in straw hats and bow ties.

The epic hurricane of 1935 destroyed the rail line and killed more than 400 people. But once the debris was cleared, the fishermen kept coming. In subsequent decades, Keys legends like Joe Brooks and Jimmy Albright honed the art of catching big-game saltwater species on a fly.

These days, United States Highway 1 traverses the 42 bridges to Key West. In some spots, the views are spectacular. And if you harbor an affection for Florida kitsch, the road will not disappoint you. The Keys have luxury waterfront housing developments and spectacular resorts like the Cheeca Lodge and Spa. But these are largely hidden from view and the ambience along Highway 1 remains decidedly fish camp.

Fast-food chains and boat dealers alternate with more indigenous offerings like Ziggy's Crab Shack and the Lor-e-lei Restaurant and Cabana Bar. The latter, which features an enormous plastic mermaid out front and countless trophy fish mounts within, is a favorite of fly-fishing guides and their clients. It's safe to say that the Bahamas brewery that produces Kalik beer -- a local favorite -- is glad the Lor-e-lei is there.

The press of humanity on the Florida Keys means there are far fewer game fish than in Mr. Flagler's day. Catching even one constitutes a good day -- in contrast to the norm in places like Andros where fish abound. But the miles of shallow saltwater flats stretching out on all sides of the Keys still produce the biggest bonefish in the world. Why this is so remains something of a mystery, but Sandy Moret, a fishing outfitter in Islamorada, said that he thought it had to do with the abundance of short wavy turtle grass in the Florida's shallows. ''It's like a condo for the shrimp, crabs and baitfish that bonefish eat,'' Mr. Moret said.

A SALTWATER flat is a plateau in the ocean -- an expanse of sand, grass or marl covered with water at depths ranging from a few inches to a several feet. Even with a hard wind, the shallows act as a natural breakwater, keeping waves to a minimum. In the Keys, the flats were formed by the limestone and the ancient coral that claimed any number of Spanish galleons sailing in to plunder the New World. On the ocean side they range out several miles. On the side facing the Gulf of Mexico, they go all the way to the Everglades in a maze of shelves, channels and mangrove islands known as the Backcountry.